Almost Local in Honolulu

I'm living local in Honolulu, but not familiar enough with all parts of town to feel I can make my way around; I still need to make a conscious effort going here and there. Back home, I drive from one area to another and get to a destination almost as if the car drove itself. It's not quite the same in Honolulu, but I feel much more relaxed than I would as a tourist. I'm something in between.

I swim again at Ala Moana, do not see any brides this time but there is a covey of older Japanese-American men playing croquet on the wide expanse of lawn. A homeless man with a large boom box is playing Frank Sinatra and big band tunes while he sits in a folding beach chair in the shade, lost in thought, smoking and smoothing the crease in his polyester slacks, Nike sneakers tied with red laces. Another man in the parking lot is playing his ukelele while he reclines in his beach chair, his feet propped up on the tailgate of his small truck. His little granddaughter is toddling around, rushing toward other parked cars to tag them with her wide-open hands and look back at her singing grandfather. He occasionally calls out to her in a gruff voice, "Hey, no! Don't you do that! Come ovah heah!" The uke music floats out over the milky aqua blue water while people sit in the shallows and talk story with one another and kids play. All sounds are softer, as if cotton batting were wrapped around them. To the west large jets take off from Honolulu airport and rumble up and away into the clouds, load after load of tourists departing for home again. Other jets soar in and bring replacement tourists for the ones who've just left.

My swim is satisfying. I push the pace a bit at intervals in an attempt to preserve my fitness. The water is probably 76 degrees. I'm getting better at keeping the salt water out of my mouth, but I end up stopping to spit it out vigorously every so often. When I finish, I down a bottle full of fresh water with enormous gratitude and pleasure.

Waikiki is a world away. I like this park, the peaceful nature of the place and the views it affords of the city to the east of what is called Magic Island, an area popular for joggers.

I join my husband, and we head over to a light industrial area on Coral Street in Honolulu to find Hank's Haute Dogs for lunch. There is no better place to find a tasty sausage dog. I get a Hawaiian Dog (a Portuguese sausage topped with mango mustard and pineapple relish) and hibiscus lemonade because it sounds exotic and tropical. A steady stream of visitors wait patiently in line, gazing up at the large menu board behind the counter, order and again wait patiently to pick up their food. I am very happy as I wait and even happier as I eat. It's a fine meal.

Later, after a nap back at the hotel, it's time to go to the grocery store to buy provisions for our Thanksgiving feast.

First, we eat outdoors at a take-away BBQ place near the Safeway store on Kapahulu Avenue while a delusional man, probably schizophrenic, walks by telling (us? God? who?) his tales of woe. He talks louder as he gets nearer our table but keeps going, fogged by his delusions. Hawaii has its share of mentally ill, and they are made more visible by its warm environment. I've seen the ruined and wretched often in Waikiki and other parts of Honolulu, just like most of America, a painful aspect of society. The meal we are eating is tasty, and I feel relief that I can provide for myself and have my health.

The truth is living in Hawaii costs a lot, and wages are low. Locals usually extend each other a more favored price than they do to strangers who are usually tourists; the kama'aina discount is a way of helping each other out, extending aloha to one another. Later, knowing that, I am really surprised when Whole Foods in the Kahala Mall (located just off the musically named Kalanianaole Highway) is jammed with shoppers. I am told this is how it is every day in this store. All hours, every day. There are very few sale prices, and most items cost more than at other stores. It seems quality has more appeal than cheap prices. Foodies abound.

Where we had seen MSG-soaked pork sausage guaranteed to taste horrible and fill us up with salt from the products offered at Safeway, Whole Foods presents us with three different pork sausage blends and no MSG. We select one, toss some other goodies into our basket and call it a day. We intend to use the sausage in our stuffing recipe.

It's time to bake pies, talk and spend time with family, prepare for the gathering tomorrow afternoon. Success! The pies do not burn, the cranberries cooperate and the fruit I bought at the stand on the North Shore is holding up well. We'll do the real cooking tomorrow and then give our thanks.